


Run, boy. Run.

by fresne



Category: Devil Went Down to Georgia (Song)
Genre: Gen, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 10:32:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8976154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresne/pseuds/fresne
Summary: Devil drove up on a coach. Shiny burning black beetle of a thing. Offering up something Johnny didn't want for something Johnny was fair certain was already lost.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gonergone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonergone/gifts).



> Pulls some words from these sources:  
> -The obvious of The Devil Went Down to Georgia  
> -Granny Will Your Dog Bite  
> http://www.mandolincafe.com/forum/showthread.php?42184-Lyric-for-granny-will-your-dog-bite  
> -Poem the Mountain Whipoorwill  
> http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-mountain-whippoorwill/  
> -House of the Rising Sun  
> http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/animals/houseoftherisingsun.html

Rain saw fit to quit 'bout half past three. So it seemed from the light playing with the trees. Mist fixin' to make the valley look like it was a fire. Like hell broke loose in Georgia after a day and a night of rain.

Johnny knew better. He knew what hell breaking loose looked like. It looked like a fife marching down a Sunken Lane. Bloody Lane. Being shot like sheep in a pen. Facedown in the mud bleedin' and fixin' to drown in that blood. 'cept some fool shot a hole in his cap and he lived to limp away.

Not hell then. Just Georgia.

But that old deluge had thundered away on the unrolled tobacco tins that were Johnny's roof 'til Johnny 'bout screamed. Ached in his missin' left leg. Circled round n' round in that one room shack. Scratchin' in the dirt with his hickory stick. Feeling the sap of the mountain fixin' to run wild. Feeling the lonesome of life.

Soon as that rain let up its caterwauling, Johnny went out to the porch. Above, the bearded old oak kept up the rain's plink. He said, "Hey, there old sun. Looks like you're seein' fit to lie down before quittin' time."

Sun didn't answer back.

Wind gave the answer. Soft wind thru the sweet potato vine. Johnny breathed in the mountain. Breathed in the itch of wanting a walk.

Down in the valley, train making its long lonesome call for New Orleans. For that life before. Tight rooms fit for poor boys fiddling hot music. Drowning in laughter. Paying for a break from lonesome in the House of the Rising Sun.

Johnny said to that old train, "I'm not fit for the Devil and city life."

Old train kept on calling its fools call all the way down the valley.

Johnny knew he needed to drown it out. Put a hole in the cap. Drain it away.

He rosined up his bow.

Johnny torched the memory. He fiddled hot on the porch and burned up the misty mountain with his playing. Fanned some embers of his soul. Sun lay on down to listen and whippoorwills danced in the distance to lead poor fools to their folly.

He weren't expecting the Devil to ride up on a burning black coach. Poor souls peering out the windows 'a that shiny black beetle of a' thing. Hollow eyed and grey. Lost.

Devil looked slick as a river boat gambler in a fine waist coat and fire in his eyes. Devil let go of the whip and jumped on down from his perch. Devil took up a spot on the hickory stump by the well. He said, "Boy, I'm a fiddle player too."

Johnny laughed. What else there to do but laugh when the Devil comes to the door.

"Give me my due, I'll bet you I'll bet a fiddle of gold against your soul, 'cause I think I'm better than you." Devil held up a gold fiddle that burned in his hands.

Johnny shook his head to clear it. Looked around and sure enough, he was still on the lonely mountain with the soft wind in the sweet potato vine, and not bleeding on some bloody lane.

Johnny felt that surge of the first sin. He knew it well. No reason to push it behind. Devil had already arrived. He tapped against the porch post with his hickory leg. "It might a sin, but I'll take you're bet." He kicked against again. "But you're gonna regret it, because I'm the best that has ever been."

Devil smiled sure as slick. Came right on up to the porch and opened up his case. Fire poured off his fingers as he rosined up his bow. It hissed like a snake in the grass. Like a snake offering up something Johnny didn't want for something Johnny was fair certain was already lost.

The Devil did not play fair. A band of demons took up behind him and played his backup, as the Devil played a song to steal a soul. Sure enough, the souls in the coach didn't keep no kind of quiet either. They screamed as the Devil played. Until finally, the last note faded away. Devil put down his fiddle with a slick gambler's smile. "Now son, what've you got?"

"Old son, have a seat." Johnny got up out of his chair so the Devil could sit those fine threads down on coarse pine. "Let me show you how it's done."

He looked out at his valley. Sun gone down and the moon come up. Whipoorwills ready to dance. Johnny said, "My mama was a whippoorwill and my daddy was a fiddle of mountain laurel."

He played on his fiddle. He played to the boy he'd been running down to New Orleans as if there was a fire on the mountain and he a long distance runner. Run, boy. Run. Never no mind the old dragon with the handful of matches.

The Devil bowed in pride from where he sat, but Johnny wasn't done.

Johnny played for the Devil in the House of the Rising Sun. For the poor boys come to their ruin. Clapping on their balls and chains of sin and misery.

The Devil bowed in pride from where he sat, but Johnny wasn't done.

He played a room full of folks dancing up a storm to the sound of his fiddle. Like chicken in a bread pan pickin' out dough.

The whipoorwill's danced and all hell broke out on the mountain. Lightin' and thunder. Still the soft wind in the sweet potato vine blew.

Devil sat there with his burning eyes watching, but Johnny wasn't done.

He played that song he'd played on a fife the day he marched on up to the Battle of Sharpsburg. Day he'd marched into hell. Folk bashing at other folk with rifle butts on account of the barrels too hot to shoot. Place where he'd left behind a piece a' himself. A good peace more than his leg.

Johnny played to his granny too. He played a poor boy asking if her dog would bite, her cow kick, her cat scratch, or her hen peck. Getting the truth of it. Yes and no. The hen was in the bread pan picking out dough. The wolf had killed the cat a long time ago. The cow was sold to pay a gambling man's debts a fair piece away. The hound had died a long time ago from pining when his boy ran off like a long distance runner. Running to a cold barroom from a fire on the mountain. Run boy, run.

Devil bowed his head. He knew he'd lost. He laid the golden fiddle at Johnny's feet. He looked up at Johnny with his eyes of flame. Devil laughed from where he knelt. "Lonesome pride up on this mountain."

Johnny could have pushed the Devil back. Instead, he leaned against a post of his porch and played fiddling fire with the Devil all through the night.

Cock's crow called dusted up the morning light. With a wink, Devil jumped back up to his coach and cracked the whip.

Johnny called after him, "Devil, come on back if you want another try. I done told you once, and I'll tell you again, I'm the best that's ever been."

Devil called back a laugh. "I do love the sin of pride."

Johnny warmed himself on that as he watched the rising sun make the mist look like there was a fire on the mountain. Run, boy. Run.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my writing, check out my profile for links to other works.


End file.
